


Seven Thousand Times

by jawsandbones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Comfort, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 06:01:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8090251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawsandbones/pseuds/jawsandbones
Summary: A recounting of all the times Fenris kisses Hawke. “Where have you been? I was worried sick,” she’s frowning still as she holds him tightly in her grasp fixing him with an icy stare. His cheeks flush and he looks away, ashamed to admit he’d been avoiding her. “You scared me half to death.” His hand is getting warmer, hers luminous, the lyrium in his skin softly glowing from the proximity of her magic. She steps forward, their hands clasped together and trapped between them. He has an apology ready, to tell her that he did not mean to worry her, but the words die when she tilts her face upwards towards his.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Recommended Listening: [I Will Be - Florence + The Machine](http://www.tubereplay.com/replay.php?tqr=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DvhGz6BLywIo&Submit=Replay)

The first time he kisses her, it’s not the way he intended. They’ve been sitting in the Hanged Man, celebrating their return from the Deep Roads, but Hawke hasn’t touched her drink. She’s looking at them, loud with laughter, with a fond smile on her face. When she gets up from the table, he follows. He follows her up the stairs, where she leans against the wall and sighs. “Did I make the right decision?” He remembers her panicked, Carver’s arm over her shoulder as they take him to the Grey Wardens. “Or did I just condemn him to a worse death?” She laughs without humor, raising one of her arms and covering her eyes with it. They can still hear the others down below.

Fenris steps closer to her, taking that hand away from her face, holding it tight in his. His other hand moves to her waist. “You did the right thing. You saved him,” he assures her. Her free hand rests on his shoulder, pulling him in, moving to the back of his neck. She sighs as her head drops to his shoulder, nuzzling into the curve where neck meets shoulder. Her hand moves through his hair, light strokes on his head, while the other winds into his tunic. His hands naturally move along her back, drifting upwards, holding her close to him.

He closes his eyes, his head resting against hers, savoring the warmth of her. The affectionate way she moves through his hair. The way she clings to him. Her breath light on his skin. His chest tightens when she begins to pull away. He reaches for her, a hand on the back of her neck and her cheek, moving forward, pressing his lips against hers. His eyes are squeezed closed, unable to see how wide hers are, but he hears the muffled _mhmph_ , as she settles into the kiss. Her hands squeeze tightly on his shoulders, his tongue pressing into her mouth.

She moves backwards, her back against the wall, taking him with her. He presses into her, his leg sliding in between hers, as her arms wrap around him. A hand travels down his spine, over every ridge, until she finds the bottom of his tunic. He half shivers when he feels her fingers on his hips, skin against skin, and he presses even harder into her. His tongue moves against hers, wet and warm, their lips slick as they slide together. She’s groaning into his mouth, cheeks red, eyes closed, soft and pliable. Only when her hips buck against his does he come to his senses.

He pulls away, stepping back, the back of his hand pressing against his mouth. His ears are flattened with embarrassment, his cheeks crimson with their kiss. “F-forgive me,” he says, turning on his heel and half running down the stairs, away from her. Hawke slides down the wall where he left her, pressing a hand against her chest. When she makes her way back down, she finds that Fenris isn’t there. She sits at the table, in front of her untouched drink, and chugs it down in one go, much to Isabela’s delight and cheering.

She goes to his door the next day, knocking gently. When he doesn’t answer, she does her best not to worry. He has his own life without her. She’s sure he’s spending his coin from the Deep Roads somewhere, enjoying himself. Still, her stomach turns. On the second day, she paces and frets, asking others if they’d seen him. On the third day, she considers breaking down his door. On the fourth, she does. It takes barely anything, a concentrated rock fist at the door handle, and it swings open uselessly. She makes a mental note to replace it for him later.

Hawke takes the stairs by two, her hand on the dusty rail, heart pounding in her chest when she sees blood on the floor. He’s sitting on his bed, wearing an oversized tunic and his leggings, his hand cut and bloody in front of him, gritting his teeth as he attempts to tie a bandage around it. “Fenris what the fuck!” She yells, her hands at her temples. He half jumps, startled, eyes wide when he sees her. He leaps to his feet, the bandage falling to the floor, more blood with it.

“Hawke, how did you –”

“What did you do?” She scolds, closing the distance between them, taking his hand in hers. It’s cut deeply down the center of his palm, as if he tried to, tried to… “Did you catch a sword with your hand?” Her asking is more demanding, her brows furrowed as she looks at him.

“I, ah, yes,” he admits sheepishly. Her tongue clicks against her teeth, a noise of disapproval, and he hisses when she claps a hand over the wound.

“Where have you been? I was worried sick,” she’s frowning still as she holds him tightly in her grasp fixing him with an icy stare. His cheeks flush and he looks away, ashamed to admit he’d been avoiding her. “You scared me half to death.” His hand is getting warmer, hers luminous, the lyrium in his skin softly glowing from the proximity of her magic. She steps forward, their hands clasped together and trapped between them. He has an apology ready, to tell her that he did not mean to worry her, but the words die when she tilts her face upwards towards his.

The second time he kisses her, she kisses him first. She has her eyes squeezed closed, while his are wide open. Her lips stay against his until he finds his bearings, pushing against her, his free hand winding into her hair as he pulls her closer. Her hand is on his waist, fingers pressing into him, and he eats into her hungrily. He pulls her bottom lip between his teeth, their noses bumping against each other as they shift. Her hand leaves his to wrap around him, splayed against his back, her chest tight against his. His now freed, healed, hand moves over her waist, the curve of her hips. She’s breathing heavily, desperate gasps of air as she drowns in him.

She steps forward, and he’s stepping backwards, until his legs find the bed. He twists her down onto it, trapping her beneath him, her legs wrapping around his waist, entwining with his. He has one arm bent, elbowing into the bed beside her head, keeping himself propped up over her. His other hand moves from her waist to her breast, fondling her over her shirt. Her hands are still on his back, but traveling downwards, slipping into the band of his leggings, pushing them downwards. His forehead presses against hers, white hair mixing with black, and he doesn’t realize he’s making small groaning noises, his tongue warm against hers.

“Fenris! Are you here? Did you know your door is broken?” Isabela’s voice carries upwards and Fenris slowly pulls away from Hawke, a small line of spit linking their mouths together before it is broken. “Did you forget we had a job today? Hello!”

“A moment!” He calls this out roughly, agitated and irritated, turning his head away from Hawke to shout in the direction of the stairs. When he turns back to her, her cheeks are still flushed, lips red, raw, and parted slightly. Her eyes are half lidded, lost in the proximity of him, her hands still fisted into his shirt. He leans back down, his eyes closed, rubbing his nose against hers, leaving the barest ghost of a kiss on her lips. “Forgive me,” he says. The second time he kisses her, it ends too soon.

When he finds Hadriana, Fenris feels the full breadth of his rage. All that he had suppressed, hidden, coming forth to the surface in a bubbling fury. He crushes her heart beneath his fist but that anger does not leave him, does not dissipate. Instead it flows through his veins, coils in his belly. It needs somewhere to go and he has no room left to hide it in himself. So when Hawke speaks, he can only yell back. “What does magic touch that it doesn’t spoil?” He sees the hurt blossom in her eyes, spreading across her face, her shoulders slumping as she holds the staff to her chest.

Fenris paces the Docks before returning to Hightown, paused on her doorstep. He paces again in her foyer, waiting for her to find him. Hawke watches and listens as he explains his anger, explains that he did not mean to push it onto her. He sighs with exasperation. All he’s doing is creating more problems for her, burdening her with _him_. So he turns, meaning to leave, end his tirade. When she touches him, there’s the lingering edge of magic and he feels that rage in his skin again. He glows with it, pushing her against the wall. He – he – his eyes widen, seeing _Hawke_ before him and he should go, he should run, she will hate him, she is reaching for him, her lips on his jaw, his cheeks, his lips.

She takes him by the shoulders and turns him, pushing him against the wall, her hands beside his head as his wrap around her waist. The third time he kisses her, he never wants to stop. There’s greedy desire in the way she writhes against him, a desperate need to touch him. He feels it the same, the tips of his gauntlets biting against her clothes as he pulls at her, his tongue forceful as he draws the sweetest nectar from her lips. He’s longing for her, burning with her, barely able to see as they move up her stairs, unable to be apart from her.

The door to her room closes behind them, and she’s reaching for his gauntlets, fingertips scraping against the clasps as she pulls them apart. The moment he’s free of the metal, he has his hands on her neck, on her face, holding her close even as she’s reaching for his breastplate. It falls to the ground with a heavy noise, and he’s pulling her up into his arms with nothing left between them. He carries her to the bed, putting her down gently upon it. He stands at the edge, her legs still around his waist, as he breaks apart to find the belt that holds her robes together.

He unbuckles it with shaking fingers, finding the edges of her robe and opening them, and it is as though he has given her wings of red. She pulls her arms free of the sleeves and reaches for him, her mouth opening to him. He bends over her, holding her head up as she works at the buttons on his tunic. Her hands are so warm against him, pulling it down over his shoulders and shucking it to the floor. Her chest heaves with heated breath, and she’s on her elbows, moving back so he may join her on the bed. “Fenris,” she says, her voice earthy and low as she hooks her thumbs into her smalls, pulling them down and off her legs.

He tracks one hand from her ankle upwards, past her knee, to her thigh as he stretches over her. Her hands are in the waistband of his leggings again, pulling them downwards as he moves against her. His lips move to her breast, taking a nipple into his mouth. She groans, a hand in his hair and the other in her own, her eyes closed as her back arches. He takes off his leggings as deftly as he can, his mouth moving back to her lips. His forehead presses against hers and, “Hawke, I –” _need you, want you, care for you, love you_ , nothing is good enough. “I am yours,” he breathes into her as flesh meets flesh, joining together.

Her hands are on his back, tracing over every bump and ridge of his spine once again, and he is warm and wet with the effort of their coupling. They rock tightly against each other, Hawke breathing in his ear, soft moans and gasps with each thrust. There’s magic in her touch, in her skin, in her, and he begins to glow as he feels it so keenly. Their noses bump and slide, their kisses sloppy and desperate. His hands shake on her hips, her toes curling as the heel of her foot presses against him. It all comes rushing back to him in an instant. The third time he kisses her, he is a fool. “Forgive me,” he asks, fully clothed, fully armored, and lost in an abyss as he leaves her.

Hawke gulps down tears over her mother’s corpse, looking at the stained ceiling of the foundry and cursing all the gods mortals have ever worshipped. She’s quiet on the way home, empty in the silence of it all, eyes red-rimmed and half-closed. She sits on the edge of her bed, staring at her toes, hands clenched into the sheets. When he comes, she asks him to say something, anything. “Forgive me, but I do not think there is any point filling these moments with empty talk,” Fenris tells her quietly, kneeling down before her. His hand finds her ankle, sliding up her leg, and he presses a chaste kiss to her knee. The fourth time he kisses her, it’s not really a kiss at all.

He carries her in his arms, away from the crowd of onlookers, the Arishok’s body growing cold on the cobblestone of the Viscount’s Keep. Fenris lays her down on the floor of the Viscount’s office, keeping her propped up against him, so weak and limp, her hand still around his neck. Hawke is wet with blood, her breathing heavy and labored, and when her eyes open, she looks only at him. Anders is leaning over her, sweat on his brow as he glows with desperate magic, trying to put all the bits of Hawke back together. Fenris presses his lips against her forehead, her skin cold. He finds her mouth, tasting of iron, kissing her again and again. “Forgive me,” she says, “I thought I could win.” The fifth time he kisses her, he thinks it will be the last time he ever does.

Fenris does not kiss her for years afterwards, spending his time faithfully at her back. Hawke is the Champion now, and her attentions are to be given to those more worthy than him. She talks about the marriage proposals she receives to Varric, handing him perfumed letter after letter, reading them aloud as though they are to be laughed at. The others do. He never does. She is a noble of Kirkwall, a respected Champion, wealthy and powerful in her own right. It is only logical that she take a husband of equal status. It is only logical that she wouldn’t want him anymore. He languishes in the gulf between them, stuck in the grime and the mud of his own floundering feelings, wondering if he’ll ever be able to reach her again. His heart beats quick with fear at the thought of her marrying someone who isn’t him. Someone who doesn’t love her the way he loves her.

He distracts himself with the task of finding his sister, writing letter after letter, spending his meagre coin to find her. When he does, when he convinces her to come to Kirkwall, he is almost sick at the thought of seeing what family of his remains. He spends many nights sleepless, restless, and tossing on his bed, wondering if this sister of his will even like him. He closes his eyes and remembers Hawke’s arms around him, and his own arms ache with the need to hold her. He is starved for affection, and this overrules his instinct to run, that tells him this is a trap.

Fenris goes to find his sister, and finds Danarius with her. There is no love like Hawke’s and it burns out Varania’s betrayal. She defends him fiercely, stands beside him and tells Danarius that “Fenris is a free man” and “he belongs to no one.” She is wrong. He belongs to her, body and soul. He feels that rage in his bones once again, pouring from his skin, bleeding out and washing over the battlefield. He tears his way through guard and shade, Hawke at his side, until he is finally able to crush Danarius’s throat beneath his fist. Varania runs, flees, away from him and his rage, and he is alone.

“I’m here Fenris,” Hawke says, and he cannot – he cannot – how can he face her? He’s run from her once before and he seems powerless to stay put, his feet unable to find solid ground. She finds him in his estate and tells him there is nothing left holding him back. Nothing except for himself, he thinks. He cannot stay in the gulf forever. He must cross, or go back. He chooses to go forward.

“I thought it better if you hated me,” he says, “I deserved no less. But it isn’t better.” It’s that grime and mud, drowning in uncertainty, wondering if she’d be able to forgive him. He paces by the fire, his brows knitting together as the words spill from his lips, unable to stop the flood now that it has started. He tells her that he wishes he could go back to that night, to that warmth, to her arms around him, his lips against hers, because, “nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you.”

She rises to meet him, her waves crashing against his, clinging to each other with all-consuming need. The sixth time he kisses her, it is with love on his lips. His bed is small, cramped, and poor in comparison to hers. She does not seem to mind. She moves above him, her toes pressing into the mattress, her hands on his shoulders. His back is against the wall, his knees bent allowing her to lean against them, his mouth on her neck. He leaves mark after mark, proclaiming her as his. He paints her body with his touch, filling the gaps in him with her. “I am yours,” he tells her, her cheeks red, her mouth open, eyes half closed with pleasure. She mewls at his words, moving forward to take his head in her hands, and he leans against her chest. She presses a kiss into his hair, holding him tightly.

“I love you Fenris. Maker, I have always loved you. I never stopped,” she wails, “always, always.” His breathing is heavy in his chest, and he squeezes his eyes closed. He holds her tighter, hands pressing against her back, feeling every movement, every beat of her heart.

The seventh time he kisses her, there is fear moving through every inch of him. “Meeting you was the most important thing that ever happened to me Hawke.” He moves forward, brushing hair behind her ears, his thumb moving against her cheek as he cups her face in his hands. “ _Promise_ me you won’t die. I can’t bear the thought of living without you.”

“I don’t make that promise unless you do,” she tells him.

“Nothing is going to keep me from you.” He lunges forward, his lips finding hers. Both of them are rough and dry from the previous battles, the exhaustion already keen in them, lips sticking to each other as they move. His tongue traces over lips, teeth, her tongue, hot-blooded and needy, lips growing wet with the intensity of their kiss. He feels her arms wrap around him, pulling him even closer. The seventh time he kisses her, he does not think they will ever part.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all, hoped you liked this wee drabble <3  
> You can find me on [Tumblr ](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/).  
> Cheers!


End file.
